


The Grass on the Other Side (is Scared)

by GinnyRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), The Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aziraphale and Crowley are Adam Young's Parents (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley are Anathema’s parents, Aziraphale and Crowley are Warlock Dowling's Parents, Aziraphale and Crowley horde children, Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Crack Treated Seriously, Found Family, Humor, Kit gets adopted, Light Angst, Multi, Parents Aziraphale and Crowley (Good Omens), faerie Aziraphale, kit is a herondale disaster, shadowhunter universe, warlock Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-09-25 04:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20370448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinnyRose/pseuds/GinnyRose
Summary: Kit was a miserable mess, sitting in the Silent City and contemplating his demise at the hands of utter boredom, when a very peculiar man comes to him with an offer of escape. Kit was never known for solid decision making and he proves this by agreeing to go off with the man he is only partially sure won't try to kill him. What follows is a wild adventure of discovering new family and rediscovering old friends.Or: Aziraphale and Crowley are an ancient, immortal couple who have an unfortunate habit of adopting miserable, bastard children and they can't resist adding a Herondale disaster of their own to their hodgepodge family.





	1. Chapter 1

Kit hated the Silent City. It was dark, dreary, and decorated only with the skeletons of Shadowhunters long gone. He was trying to look on the bright side and keep himself entertained, but there was only so many times one could recite half-forgotten Shakespearean monologues while holding some poor bastard’s skull before the appeal was lost. Kit had spent his time healing in his admittedly decent room, with only the Silent Brother who brought him bland food thrice a day for company. He very much feared that he was going to lose his mind if he was forced to stay down in the City much longer.

It really didn’t help that he didn’t know _why _he was in the City. The strange occurrence on the battlefield – when he had done whatever it was to the Riders – and what that meant for him had consumed most of his thoughts. At least thinking about his apparently latent faerie abilities kept him thinking about Ty. For the most part, anyway.

Kit’s ramblings were caught off by the sound of footsteps. His first thought was of food – he was fairly sure it was nearing lunch time, it was hard to tell in the never-changing City – but he quickly realized that there were _two _sets of footsteps echoing across the hard stone. There was hardly any reason for two Silent Brothers to bring him food and he sat up quickly from the narrow wrought-iron bed that had been provided for him, running a hand through his hair in the hopes of taming it. Had a verdict been reached about him? Had he been found guilty of doing some kind of forbidden dark magic and a Shadowhunter was coming down to declare that he would never leave again?

If that was the case, Kit hoped they hadn’t sent Alec Lightwood. He had seen what his words had done to Zara Dearborn the day Livvy died and he really didn’t want to be on the brunt end of his wrath.

The door opened, revealing a tall Silent Brother dressed in the same bone colored robes they all seemed to own. Kit had wondered before if the order gave them multiple sets or if they had to wash them every day, but it had seemed rude to ask and, in his experience, it wasn’t particularly smart to anger a potentially ancient, powerful being. Even one that had once been human and – supposedly – still mostly was.

Thoughts about the Silent Brother’s robes left his mind quickly when the Brother passed to the side of his room, revealing another figure behind him. Kit had never seen the man before. He was tall and slender like a Shadowhunter, and his all black color scheme – from the tips of his shoes to the lenses of his round sunglasses - was certainly in the spirt of Nephilim tastes, but the moment he moved to enter the room in a loping, easy saunter, Kit knew this was no Shadowhunter. Not even Jace could match the swagger the man possessed, nor the grace.

Kit’s assumptions were proven true when the man snapped his fingers and the door to his room slammed behind him. He barely resisted flinching from the noise – the loudest thing he had since waking up in his borrowed bedroom – but the man seemed to have noticed his discomfort anyway because he smirked at Kit before moving to pull out the desk chair in the corner of the room Kit had never used. He plopped down in it with a grace Kit really didn’t understand but was instantly jealous of – he had never seen someone artfully throw themselves into a chair before - and crossed his long legs at the ankle. Kit stared at him, perplexed. He had no idea who the warlock – for certainly that was what he was – was or why he was here for Kit. He at least didn’t seem to mean him any harm. Kit would consider why and when his bar of acceptable behavior from strangers had dropped from “minding their own business and leaving him alone” to “did not immediately attack him” later. When a strange man was not sitting in his room and leering at him.

At least he was pretty sure he was leering. It was remarkably hard to tell through the man’s nearly black lenses.

“Well?” The man spoke up. He was British, judging by his accent, but accents could be faked. Kit’s own father had taught him how to fake a fairly convincing French accent in one of the rare moments that he took the time to do anything with him. “Got anything to say? A strange bloke walks into your room, and you act like some demon’s got your tongue.” There was a bit of incredulity in his voice, as though he couldn’t imagine a more stupid thing than to sit silently in a room with a complete stranger. Kit had to admit that was a fairly valid point.

“Is everyone okay? Who are you? Are you coming to break me out? I really didn’t do anything wrong. Especially not try to raise someone from the dead,” Kit could only blame his sudden onslaught of words on the days he spent in near silence. This man was the first person Kit had seen that actually spoke aloud in far too long. He would have totally been able to play it cool, otherwise.

“That’s more like it.” The man seemed surprisingly pleased, a new smirk snaking its way across his face. Without warning, he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward towards Kit. The light of the room was dim, so the sudden proximity made it finally possible to discern more of the man’s features. What Kit had assumed was a perfectly coiffed head of dark brown hair was actually auburn, lighting up like fire under the light, and there was a black snake tattoo near his right ear. Kit had never seen a tattooed warlock before – although he had suspicions that Magnus had at least one hidden underneath his bright clothing – and the sight of something he only associated with mundanes and the occasional vampire or werewolf was surprising. He stared perhaps a little too hard at it, but the man didn’t seem to mind.

“Curiosity’s a good thing,” He continued and Kit drew his gaze from the tattoo back to the man’s eyes. Or the proximate location of his eyes, at any right, since the warlock was still wearing his sunglasses. How he could see anything in the dim room was beyond Kit. Magic, he guessed.

“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘everyone,’” the man continued easily, “quite a few got killed when those two lovers went nuclear, but if you mean the people you were staying with, they’re all doing fine, from what I heard. My name’s Crowley. I _am_ here to break you out, as a matter of fact, and I don’t much care if you did anything wrong. In fact, we’ll get along better if you do commit some crimes. Nothing’s wrong with a little bit of necromancy, if you got the right people with you.” Kit tried very hard to determine if the man was being serious or not – he had met very few people who were actually okay with crime and even his father would have balked at necromancy. He was fairly sure, anyway. But the man seemed almost joyful at the idea that Kit might have a habit of trying to bring people back from the dead. Which he didn’t; one time certainly didn’t make a habit. Especially if he didn’t enjoy the experience.

“I’d never do necromancy,” he said, for lack of anything better. The man – Crowley – shrugged at that.

“Not everyone’s cup of tea, I’m sure. Doesn’t matter, Aziraphale will want you anyway.” He responded casually, standing up from his chair just as quickly as he had sat. “Come now, I don’t have all damn day.” He said pointedly as Kit remained seated.

“Who’s Aziraphale?” Kit asked, not standing up. “What exactly is going on?”

“Now, I don't mind questions, but there’s a time and a place for them.” Crowley responded, a biting edge of impatience in his voice. “And there's a very long story attached to those particular questions that I am neither drunk nor kind enough to tell you now. Aziraphale always covers the touchy-feely stuff.” He made a vague motion with his hands, as though brushing off Kit’s questions.

Kit stubbornly continued sitting, wondering idly if Crowley was trying to kidnap him. His life had really gone down, if the prospect of a magical kidnapping was more an inconvenience than a horror.

Crowley let out an exasperated noise that was remarkably close to a hiss. “I’m not going to blab out the whole story now like some old woman in the church lot. So if you could just get up, we can be off and out of this hellhole before one of those quiet bastards comes back in.” Definitely sounding like a kidnapping. Kit edged slightly away from Crowley, wishing he knew how to conjure up the light he had summoned at the battlefield. Crowley let out another hiss but made no move to actually grab at Kit.

“Fine, you stubborn brat. Aziraphale’s a faerie. Used to be from the Seelie Court but he left there centuries ago now. Takes in Downworlder kids with nowhere to go because he has a bleeding heart. Got a call from another warlock – Tessa Gray, I’m sure you know her. Saved you from about -oh – half a dozen flesh-eating demons, didn’t she? Anyway, Aziraphale took her call. It was about you and now I’ve been sent here to fetch you.” Kit knew he should have had a negative reaction to Crowley’s frankness, but he found it strangely refreshing. He wasn’t trying to treat Kit with kid gloves, and his crude reference to the attack at Kit’s house reminded him a bit of how his father spoke.

“Tessa sent you?” He remembered her well, despite only meeting her briefly. Her kindness, even after seeing the brutal remnants of Kit’s father, had left an impression on him. “She wanted you to come get me?”

“Yeah, yeah. She’s a bit busy, what with the idiot Nephilim getting themselves into yet another mess. Asked me to come get you and bring you to Aziraphale’s so you weren’t stuck down here until she was done helping clear up this latest bout of stupidity.” Crowley’s voice was sharpened with impatience, but he was still answering Kit’s questions and he wasn’t trying to get into his space and force him to obey and that alone was nearly enough to endear Kit to him. “I could leave you down here, if you’d rather make friends with the spiders in the walls. I’m sure your Nephilim friends will come rescue you. In another day or two.” He added, just a little meanly.

Kit hesitated. Although he desperately wanted to leave the crushing heaviness of the Silent City – to the point that he had asked Crowley if he was going to break him out – Crowley was still a complete stranger. And he had given Kit very little, besides Tessa’s name, to suggest he wasn’t lying. But he also hadn’t harmed Kit at all, nor was he trying to grab at him like a true kidnapper would. Crowley was giving him a choice, at the very least. And if Kit’s only other options were waiting for either Tessa to be done with whatever she was doing or for the Blackthorns to come fetch him – which would involve, undoubtedly, seeing Ty again – he might have to take his chances with the possible kidnapper. Still, he had one last question to ask. One that he was sure no true abductor would actually answer.

“Where would we be going?” He asked.

“Bookshop in London.” Crowley replied easily enough, his impatience turning his voice tart. England was rather far away from Los Angeles, Kit thought. Nearly far enough, he was sure, to escape the humiliation he felt every time he thought of the Institute there, and the people who lived in it. He stood up.

“Okay. I’ll go with you.” Despite Crowley’s impatient attempts to get Kit out the door earlier, he seemed comically surprised at Kit’s turn of face.

“That easy, now?” He asked, disbelief coloring his voice even as he snapped his fingers again. Kit had never seen someone conjure a portal that way – he was pretty sure they generally involved runes or something of the sort but no one seemed to have explained that to the walls in his room as one suddenly opened up into a large, swirling portal just waiting for them to step in. Trying to hide his surprise – just what kind of warlock was Crowley, anyway? – he just shrugged.

“I liked London okay, last time.” He had nearly been killed in London, but at least Livvy had still been alive. And Ty had still been his friend.

“What kind of weird answer -” He was pretty sure he heard Crowley mutter as the taller man strode towards what had once been the fourth wall in the room, but it hardly mattered. Without any more thought on the matter – Kit had made some of his best decisions in extreme bouts of impulsiveness and some of his worst with careful planning, anyway - he stepped forward after Crowley and entered into the swirling portal.

He didn’t know what was on the other side, but he had a gut feeling that it would be better than the pain he was leaving behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Crowley fetches Kit, Aziraphale worries about the latest addition to their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, I included some background information to flesh out Aziraphale and Crowley's backstory in the bottom notes.

Aziraphale was feeling all a flutter. He always did in these situations. Even countless years and children later, he couldn’t help but feel nervous.

Would the boy like him?

Well, it didn’t really matter, now did it? He was only coming here for a few days, at most. Then he’d, more likely than not, be off with the Carstairs. They were a nice couple, Jem and Tessa. Aziraphale had, of course, known of them when they first came together, back when the good Queen Victoria still lived. Or their story, at least. It had had all of the Downworld in a titter – well, Tessa and her strange abilities at least had. Along with that nasty business with Mortmain. But Aziraphale had been drawn to the story of the young immortal who had been condemned to love not one, but two painfully mortal men. It was rather like the plays of old that he used to watch Crowley perform for dearest Anathema with shadows on the walls, when she was but a slip of a girl. Like the ones Crowley still played to Warlock, and Adam occasionally, when the older boy was sick or sad and needed a pepper-up.

Not that Aziraphale would ever tell the young woman what she reminded him of, of course. Crowley had told him, after all, that most people did not like their lives being compared to stories. Especially tragedies. So Aziraphale had said nothing of the sort when he had met the warlock woman for the first time, back when she was still called Herondale and married to that nice William boy, and he had said nothing when she came to him again, James Carstairs in hand, and asked after sweet, tragic Auraline. But he had been happy for them, and eager to help with all that he could.

Which is how he ended up where he was now. Nervously arranging and rearranging the shelves in his bookshop, wiping nonexistent dust off his well-loved tomes as he waited for Crowley to return with yet another child left alone by tragedy.

Christopher Jonathan Herondale, the boy was named. The child of a petty thief and talented swindler, Johnny Rook, and the descendant of sweet Auraline, Rosemary Herondale. Only fifteen years old, and already an orphan. A victim of awful happenstance and battles waged long before his birth. Child of the angelic, earthly, and demonic worlds, and blessed with powers the likes of which this world had not seen in decades.

If Tessa Gray and her star-crossed lovers were the protagonists of a Shakespearean play, Christopher Herondale was a boy straight from an ancient Greek tragedy. One of the better ones too, a Aeschylean or a Euripidean – none of that later rubbish the Athenians tried to pass off as decent. Aziraphale didn’t care what Aristophanes said – not even Iophon held a candle to the greats. He would know, after all, as he’d been there when _Medea_ had terrified all the Athenian men. It may not have won first place, but ancient Athenian women had never been treated better than in the week following the death of Medea’s boys. That didn’t say much, given that the poor dears could still be sold into slavery by their fathers, but Arizaphale has always been able to appreciate the powers performance had on people, even if temporary.

Aziraphale’s thoughts were running off on him again. It happened often when he was nervous – Crowley always teased that he was quite a dreamer, for a faerie. Aziraphale supposed he was quite right, although he’d be loathed to admit that to the other man. He had been thinking about Christopher Herondale though, and that’s to where his thoughts returned as he decided – for the third time – that his first editions of Oscar Wilde were simply not in the right spot and moved them back to the third shelf on the left, where they had started the day. Christopher was like hounded Orestes – without the matricide, of course. Compelled to play a hard role in life because of decisions made by his ancestors and constrained by prophecies forced upon him by his birth.

For Aziraphale, being a trueborn son of the gentry in the Seelie Court, put much stock in prophecies, even though they had long fallen out of favor amongst the rest of the world. He knew what Auraline had been born to be – knew what words had condemned her descendants to awful, bloody deaths at the hands of the Riders. Christopher was the last survivor of that line and Aziraphale had no doubt that, even with the Riders dead and gone, the role he had to play was not going to be small. He was, after all, the first of that line in a very long time to use magic on the field. Tessa had assured him that the only ones who had seen Kit’s magic use had been struck down by the righteous fury of the Nephilim, but Aziraphale knew that battles were messy at best and chaos at worst. Christopher’s secrecy was not assured and Aziraphale had lived far too many centuries to not be able to sense change in the air.

No, Christopher Herondale, Aziraphale was positive, would be the one to put Auraline’s line to rest. Come life or death, it all would end with that boy.

But that was years in the future. But it would only be a few more minutes until the boy was in his shop and there were far more pressing problems.

Would the boy _like_ him? Even if he was only staying a few hours or a few days before going off with the Carstairs, Aziraphale wanted to make a good impression. The poor dear had a dreadful history with faeries so far, and even if the Riders were nothing but a glorified assassination squad for the Unseelie King, they had to have left an undeniably awful impression on the child. Aziraphale hoped the boy wouldn’t hold a grudge against all faeries, but he also wouldn’t blame if he did. Especially after Aziraphale told him the whole sordid affair of Auraline and how she came to be his ancestress.

He supposed he could do as Crowley suggested, and leave the hard part for the Carstairs but Aziraphale did not much like the idea of leaving the poor dear without any answers. He had gone through so much without any hint of why - it would be unfairly cruel to let that stand when Aziraphale had the power to change it. So he would tell the boy and hope he didn’t hate him for it. It would be fine, Aziraphale supposed, if the boy did not like him in the long wrong, but it would surely make his stay at their household unpleasant.

Which brought up the second, even more pressing worry.

Would Christopher be happy with them?

Even if it was just a few days, Aziraphale wanted him to be comfortable in their home. Aziraphale did not like when anyone was unhappy in his home – an unhappy child in his home was even worse. He had, of course, had more than a few stay with him over the years. It was par for the course, after all. He and Crowley had opened their home to the most downtrodden, unfortunate children – warlock children, most often, whose marks had manifested early, leaving their mundane parents to abandon them in fear; half-fae children, sometimes, whose mundane parents didn’t understand them, full-faerie children, more rarely, whose parents had died or who had been thrown out of the courts and left at the mercies of the cruel land of Faerie. Occasionally pack-less werewolf children came to them, although the Praetor Lupus often took them. Or had, before that terrible Morgenstern boy had slaughtered the whole lot. A few young vampires had come to stay too, but they almost always left to join their own clan.

Quite a few children, truth be told, in the three centuries since they had begun keeping them, had made their home with Aziraphale and Crowley. Even more had passed through on their way to more suitable, permanent homes – especially back in the very beginning when it had been Aziraphale’s job to steal away children. They had almost always been happy in his home and those still alive – for time had claimed most of the mortal ones and violence had taken several of the immortal – wrote and visited whenever they could.

No, Aziraphale knew how to make sure children were happy. Crowley, being a bit less fussy and a lot more fun, was better with them, of course. But Aziraphale was quite capable of handling and raising well-adjusted, happy children – be they Children of Lilith, the Moon, the Night, or the Fair Folk.

But Christopher was no warlock. Nor was he a werewolf or a vampire, and, although faerie blood ran through his veins, he was not really of the Fey, insofar as his upbringing. Christopher was a Shadowhunter child raised as a mundane with the sight and Aziraphale had never dealt with a Shadowhunter or mundane child. Not once, in over three hundred and fifty years, had a Shadowhunter or mundane child stepped through his doorstep and he was not sure he knew what would make such a boy happy. But Christopher’s happiness was currently Aziraphale’s most fervent wish. He wanted it even more than he wanted to know the author of the _Red Scrolls of Magic _and have his copy signed.

But how to ensure it? With many of the others it had been easy – dearest Anathema, their first permanent child, had been content some occult objects and the occasional demonic summoning for most of her childhood. But that had been in the 17th century and there hadn’t been much else to give to little girls who had despised dolls and didn’t much enjoy any other toys, either. There were so many things to give children now – would he like those odd flashy video games that sweet Warlock enjoyed? Would he be content running around the mundane village and terrorizing the neighborhood like darling Adam did?

He didn’t think he’d much like what their littlest Luna did – which was mainly hang onto Aziraphale or Crowley’s legs or try to waddle after one of the older boys until they allowed her to join their games. Perhaps he would enjoy learning the tricks Crowley knew – his father had been a conman after all, and Crowley had invented a good number of schemes that could interest the boy. Then again, Shadowhunters, from Aziraphale’s surprisingly limited experience with them, did not seem to like such things. He wouldn’t want Christopher to get in trouble when the Carstairs came to fetch him. 

Maybe books? Aziraphale had some rather vague memories that the Herondale family liked books. He was fairly certain that one of them – a John, perhaps, there was a good number of those in the Nephilim world – had managed to buy one of his books a century or so ago. Perhaps Christopher would be happy hanging around the bookstore or in the library at home.

Books, Aziraphale thought with a fond smile – the first smile he had given since Tessa had asked her favor – had a way of bringing happiness to people. He had yet to meet a person whose entire demeanor could not have been improved with the right book. He just had to find the perfect one for Christopher, then. With that thought in mind, Aziraphale turned to another of his shelves, determined to find a book a Shadowhunter boy would enjoy. Something with adventure, maybe some mystery.

He had just begun running his finger lightly across the spines of his first edition Sherlock Holmes, debating whether or not the_ Hounds of Baskerville_ would be Christopher’s cup of tea when the back wall of the main room suddenly opened up. Startled – Crowley had said it would probably be about an hour, surely he hadn’t spent all that time already? – Aziraphale dropped his hand from the books and turned to face the whirling portal.

Feeling more self-conscious than he had in years, he surreptitiously ran a hand down his waistcoat, straightening all the nonexistent wrinkles. Perhaps he should run to the back and get one of the lint rollers? Dog had jumped up on him this morning and he could just feel all the tiny, invasive hairs on him. Christopher would think him a slob – Aziraphale would just dip into the back and clear them all away and –

Before Aziraphale could so much as take a step away from the portal, a tall figure was appearing. Too late, then. After all, it would be so much worse if he wasn’t there to greet the boy at all. He would just have to hope that the pale hairs were indistinguishable from the cream and beige colors of his suit. He ran another nervous hand down his waistcoat as Crowley fully manifested, stepping from the wall as casually as one did a regular doorway. Aziraphale would have said something – he had a million and a half questions rolling around his head – but another smaller, figure was already coming forward and there simply wasn’t enough time.

“Relax, angel.” Crowley murmured to him, stepping and turning in one fluid motion so that he was next to Aziraphale and watching Christopher come out from the portal. It was an easy thing for the warlock to say, Aziraphale thought a trifle unfairly, children came much easier to him then they did Aziraphale. He didn’t say anything, however, because Christopher was stepping out from the portal, fumbling slightly at the end as though he wasn’t quite used to leaving them yet.

He was tall for his age and a shade too skinny for Aziraphale’s comfort – he would have to make sure that the boy had a couple of good meals before the Carstairs came for him. He was fairly certain Nephilim children were all at least lightly muscled but Christopher’s limbs still had a boyish softness to them. His blonde hair was a tad long, the locks tussled and falling into his bright blue eyes – perhaps he would consent to a haircut? But then again, maybe that was the style now? Keeping up with mortal trends was more Crowley’s department than his. He knew Adam liked his hair shorter so that it wasn’t in his way as he adventured around with his friends whereas Warlock hadn’t let anyone cut it above his jawline since he was six, but he didn’t think either of his boys were a good litmus for modern trends.

Christopher was a shockingly beautiful child, Aziraphale realized as the boy righted himself and looked straight at him. With his golden hair, rosy-cheeks, high cheekbones and startlingly blue eyes not quite hidden by boyish softness, he looked rather like a renaissance angel and reminded him, surprisingly enough, of Adam back home. He was going to be devastating when he hit adulthood, Aziraphale knew. With a slightly haunted look in his eyes and a slight slouch to his shoulders, however, Aziraphale knew he was also a rather sad child.

He knew that Christopher’s fifteen years had not exactly been kind, but a basic knowledge of such facts was rather different than the emotional response of witnessing them. Aziraphale had to stamp down all his instinctive urges that told him to begin heating milk for hot cocoa and wrap the boy in front of him in the fluffiest of blankets possible. Fifteen-year-olds of any sort – be they Fey, warlock, or Nephilim – did not like being coddled. Even Adam, having just turned twelve, complained sometimes at being treated like a little child.

So Aziraphale tamped down all his urges, straightened himself as surreptitiously as possible, and smiled his brightest, most unassuming smile. “Welcome Christopher! You must be exhausted; would you like anything?” Well, maybe he hadn’t managed to suppress _all_ his urges, but he had been raising children for several centuries and he thought that, overall, he had done fairly well. Even if Crowley, hastily covering a laugh with a conveniently timed cough, apparently disagreed.

Christopher seemed to have been caught off guard – perhaps he was unused to kindness? Aziraphale knew he had been staying with the Blackthorn family, but apart from that nasty business with the half-fey children and the truly unfortunate series of deaths that had plagued the family the past several years, he didn’t know much about them. He had assumed they were relatively kind – Tessa’s Jem had spoken fondly of them but Tessa’s Jem could also speak fondly of a carnivorous duck if the mood struck him. Or so Crowley had sworn he’d overheard once when he had unashamedly spied on them at the park when they first sought Aziraphale and his help. Perhaps the Blackthorns had been horribly strict – the Nephilim life was hardly a soft one, after all, and hard lives often made hard people.

Or perhaps it wasn’t Nephilim strictness that made Christopher wary – perhaps he was unused to kindness from the Fair Folk. Aziraphale was loath to speak badly about his own people but he had to admit that despite the sweet euphemisms mortals insisted on using for the denizens of Faerie, they were hardly a kind race. Especially to those hunted, like young Christopher and his family was.

That must be it, Aziraphale thought feeling a bit of heaviness settle in his chest as he watched the young boy shoot a confused look at Crowley before flicking his bright eyes back towards him. Christopher was not the first child he met who had learned to be wary of the Fey – undoubtedly the boy was searching for the sort of catch that almost always accompanied an offer from a faerie. But Aziraphale was nothing if not stubborn, and he would not just allow Christopher to continue believing all faeries as terrible as the dreadful Riders of Mannan. He fixed his smile even more brightly.

“Come now, Christopher. I don’t believe the Silent Brothers are known for their exquisite food. How about we have tea together?” The boy’s confusion, despite Aziraphale’s best attempts, seemed to only grow. He gave another hesitant look at Crowley, who had apparently decided to remain unhelpfully silent now that he had done the work of fetching the child, before turning back to Aziraphale.

“I don’t really like tea.” Christopher spoke bluntly; Aziraphale could appreciate his honesty even if every naturalized-British nerve in his body ached at the thought of not liking tea. “Crowley said Tessa asked you to take me in? He also said you’d be able to explain what the –“ Here Christopher paused, taking in Aziraphale’s very proper attire and posture – “what’s going on.” Aziraphale was absolutely positive that was not what Christopher meant to say, but he decided to let it slide. Christopher had obviously had a very large shock – not to mention the raw uncertainty in his voice when he mentioned them taking him in – and Aziraphale very much would not blame him if he had several choice words to say about his situation.

At the very least, Christopher did not seem completely opposed to Aziraphale. He definitely wanted some answers at the very least. And Aziraphale was all too willing to give them to him. But first, “how about some hot chocolate, then? And some biscuits and sandwiches to go with it.” The boy really was simply too thin. “I’m afraid the answers you wish for aren’t the most pleasant and I’ve always found food a salve for even the worst of conversations. Crowley, dear, would you be so kind?” Aziraphale directed his last question to Crowley, a pointed look in his eye as he glanced at the warlock beside him. Crowley made a show of reluctance – Aziraphale could sense the magnificent eye roll even behind his sunglasses – but he obediently waved his hand, making a table teeming with all sorts of sweets, several plates of small sandwiches, and three steaming cups appear, along with three wooden chairs.

Aziraphale beamed gratefully at Crowley before turning back to Christopher. “Please, sit, Christopher.” He gestured at the table. The boy hesitated only a moment, casting another bright-eyed glance at the two in front of him, before he sat in the chair nearest him and picked up one of the steaming mugs. Crowley threw himself in the chair beside the boy, slouching down until his feet nearly came out the opposite end and picked up a mug that – judging from the smell of it – had a little more than chocolate in it. Aziraphale decided not to question it as, at the very least, Christopher’s appeared perfectly unspiked, and took the last seat primly.

There was silence at the table for a moment. Then Crowley, apparently deciding that he would break the awkward silence in the worst way possible, turned to Aziraphale and spoke in a would-be casual voice, “You know, angel, I’m pretty sure that Tessa woman said the boy’s name was ‘_Kit_.’”

Oh dear.

Aziraphale turned to the boy who seemed suddenly interested in the plate of cucumber sandwiches in front of him.

Oh _dear_. Kit was never going to like him now. Aziraphale was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for taking the time to read this! I really hoped you enjoyed it. It was a lot of fun writing in Aziraphale's point of view. Next chapter will be back to Kit, I think. I might do more of the characters like Crowley in later chapters, if anyone is interested. 
> 
> Here is some background notes on the Crowley and Aziraphale of this universe:   
\- Crowley is one of the oldest known warlocks in the world. He's one of the eight who claim to be older than the Nephilim, and probably the only one actually telling the truth.  
\- Aziraphale was born to a noble Seelie court family and he was entrusted in the task of staying up in the mortal world and studying humans when they first began appearing.  
\- Technically, Aziraphale is not immortal, but since faeries can canonically choose when they die, he's decided that he will not go until his beloved Crowley does and so he's quietly become the longest-living faerie known.  
\- It was Aziraphale who started the tradition of faeries snatching children, after he observed a mortal girl be beat by her father and promptly stole her from her bed the next night. But it was Crowley who hunted down the most unpleasant of faeries possible and convinced it to take her place and terrorize her parents with all sorts of faerie tricks.  
\- After the Nephilim were born and began hunting down Downworlders instead of just demons, Aziraphale, along with Crowley, started stealing away unwanted, abandoned, or orphaned Downworlder children and moving them into safe homes. They also did the same for Downworlder children whose mundane parents mistreated them.  
\- Aziraphale and Crowley never intended to keep any of the children, but they once saved a young warlock girl by the name of Anathema Device from the stake in the 17th century and she refused to leave them. So they did the logical thing, which was to settle down in a small English town and raise the girl as normally as possible. This was also, coincidentally, the first time the two officially lived together - Aziraphale posing as the kindly bachelor uncle of an orphaned Anathema and Crowley as her domineering governess. They would not, however, get together for another century or so.  
\--Anathema may or may not have celebrated with one too many cases of Champagne when it finally happened, but that's not important.  
\- Anathema was the first of many children that Aziraphale and Crowley ended up raising. Their devotion to children and their constant movements to find them ensured that they more or less stayed away from Nephilim affairs, although they became known, more or less, once the Accords were ratified. They are basically legends amongst Downworlders, however.  
\- At the time of this story, Adam is a 12-year-old warlock who was orphaned during Sebastian's war, Warlock is an 8-year-old warlock whose nanny (Crowley) stole him away after witnessing his father begin neglecting and abusing him when his mark appeared at the age of three, and Luna is a 3-year old faerie that Aziraphale found on the doorstep of his bookstore. (I normally don't include OCs into my story like this but I really love the idea of Kit being an older brother to a little girl. Mina will probably still appear in this story, but she'd be more like a cousin than a little sister.)
> 
> If you have any more questions regarding the backstory, feel free to ask me and I'll try to answer.  



	3. Chapter 3

Kit was feeling incredibly awkward, sitting down at some strange adult version of the tea parties he used to invite his action figures and stuffed animals to when he had been a kid. When he had blindly followed Crowley through the portal, still half-thinking it was some sort of kidnapping attempt, he had been thinking of some dingy, dusty bookstore that was a front for a shady Downworlder operation. He had not been expecting a cozy, sunlit store crammed full of teeming bookshelves and the occasional green of a flourishing houseplant. And he certainly hadn’t been expecting Aziraphale. With his perfectly pressed beige suit – complete with waistcoat and _tartan_ bowtie -, his plump frame, and open, trusting face that screamed ‘easy mark’ from the tips of his white-blond curls to the corners of his frown – Aziraphale was like no one he had ever met before. And certainly not like any faerie Kit had met.

He had spoken warmly, as though Kit was some sort of long lost and half-forgotten relative – which, technically speaking, he could have been and wasn’t that an odd sort of existential crisis waiting for him? – that was visiting for the holiday rather than some random teenager crashing at his store for a few days because an immortal woman had asked him to. Kit hadn’t expected that and it had thrown him through a loop to be greeted like an old friend and offered food. He supposed he hadn’t acted strictly politely – not that his father had instilled much manners to him anyway – and he had been going to apologize after they had sat down to try and rectify the situation because he really didn’t need his new, temporary host hating him from the get-go. But then Crowley had gone and mentioned that Kit didn’t go by Christopher and now Aziraphale was wearing an expression Kit had never seen on a faerie but looked remarkably like a kicked puppy. And Kit didn’t think there was any fixing from there.

“I’m so sorry, Kit.” Aziraphale said to him, his British accent – which surely had to be fake, Kit was fairly certain faeries didn’t adopt human accents – making his words somehow both more sincere and more polite. “Please forgive my slight. I hadn’t realized you preferred a shortened form of your given name.” At least the odd, formal way he spoke was familiar. Faeries all seemed to talk like they had last visited earth when Shakespeare was still walking around. It made Kit feel a little less off kilter in what was quickly becoming one of the weirdest situation he had ever been in. And that included the not-so-fun necromantic times and the battle that had brought him here.

“It’s not a big deal,” Kit told the strange man. He didn’t know why but he had the odd but distinctive feeling that he didn’t want to disappoint Aziraphale. Perhaps it was the sweet, bumbling, and harmless demeanor he presented. Perhaps it was the subtle way Crowley had shifted his body once Aziraphale had issued his apology that seemed to be a silent warning to Kit not to upset the faerie. Perhaps a mixture of both. “Lots of people do it, at first.” He added when the kicked puppy expression didn’t immediately disappear from the faerie’s face. Then, because he had nothing to say, Kit carefully lifted the cup Crowley had magicked in front of him.

The hot chocolate inside was a rich, inviting color and Kit hesitantly lifted it up towards his mouth and took a delicate, hopefully discreet sniff. He had heard the story of Meliorn and the Downworlder representatives before and although he knew neither the warlock nor the faerie in front of him would need to spike his drink to overpower him, he knew enough to be careful. It only smelled of chocolate, however, and Kit tentatively took a sip. The chocolate was the perfect combination of smooth and sweet and Kit found himself taking a deeper drink without quite meaning to.

It might have been rude Kit thought belatedly, to start drinking before one’s hosts did. He didn’t know any Warlock manners, or even if they had any for eating and drinking or just used the mundane ones from whatever culture they were a part of, and all he knew about Faerie food and drink was that one shouldn’t accept it which Kit didn’t particularly want to think about now that he’d drained a quarter of his cup in one drink.

Luckily enough for Kit, it didn’t seem that he’d crossed some unspoken politeness line, as both Aziraphale and Crowley had followed suit and grabbed their cups. Crowley had drunk from his with the type of suave casualness Kit could only aspire to in his dreams but Aziraphale seemed to have only picked it up to have something to do with his hands. He still looked troubled, as though he really thought Kit was upset about his name. The tea – cocoa? - party had already been awkward but it was becoming downright excruciating as the silence wore on. Kit would have to break the silence before its crushing weight suffocated him. But he needed to do it tactfully. He was, after all, in a random bookshop in a foreign country with two powerful strangers.

So now that we have hot chocolate, could you could tell me what is going on?” Not the most tactful thing he could have said, but certainly not the worst to ever come out of his mouth. Kit was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be attacked on the spot, at the very least.

Aziraphale, who had been looking at his mug as though it had burned him, seemed to suddenly perk up at Kit’s voice. He beamed at him over the table. “Take some food first,” he gestured widely at the table and beamed when Kit obediently picked up a cookie from the plate closet to him. It was still warm and practically oozing with melted chocolate chips. The perfect kind of cookie in Kit’s nearly expert opinion. “There’s a good lad,” Aziraphale said warmly and Kit – rather than feeling indignant the way he often did when someone spoke to him as though he was a child – felt oddly pleased. There was something so - fatherly, for lack of better word, about Aziraphale that it was hard not to react to the praise in the man’s tone.

Not that Kit’s father had ever spoken to him nearly as warmly. The only time he’d come close was after Kit had successfully lifted some rude, wealthy mundane’s Rolex from his wrist when he was nine. Even then, it had maybe half the amount of praise Aziraphale had given him for eating a cookie. Resolutely pushing thoughts of his father from his mind, Kit bit into the cookie. He had done it more to please Aziraphale – and get him to start talking – but he quickly forgot all about his ulterior motives when the warm, sugary taste of the cookie hit his tongue. It was the best cookie he’d ever had, even better than the ones Julian had made at the Institute. The perfect ratio of chocolate and butter. Without even fully realizing it, Kit finished his cookie and grabbed another.

Aziraphale beamed as Kit ate a second cookie and even Crowley seemed mildly pleased – as far as Kit could tell without seeing his eyes, anyway. “Old family recipe.” Aziraphale told him as Kit took a bite and let the still warm chocolate explode on his tongue. “Crowley perfected it back in oh – was it the forties, dear?” He turned to Crowley who shrugged noncommittedly.

“Think it was ’42. Made ‘em for that old bastard Aldrich because he said nothing good ever came out of America. He nearly had a heart attack when he found out they were invented there.” Crowley sounded unduly pleased as he reminisced, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Kit, who had nearly dropped his cookie in surprise that _Crowley_ was the one who baked, tried very hard to school his face into an expression that hid his surprise. At least hearing Aziraphale call Crowley ‘dear’ explained how they knew each other. He wondered if Alec Lightwood and Magnus Bane would act like them, in a few decades’ time. He couldn’t really see either of them spite-baking though. “Anyway, I’m glad you like them, kid.” Crowley turned towards Kit then. “I’d have had to kick you out if you were one of those heathens that hate chocolate.”

_"Crowley_!” Aziraphale sounded horrified. Crowley’s face broke into a fully wicked grin as he waved off the faerie’s outrage.

“Relax, angel. Only joking.” The would-be casual tone in Crowley’s voice didn’t quite convince Kit, but Aziraphale at least seemed mollified even as he tried to adopt a stern voice as he spoke.

“Well then. Perhaps in the future you could employ humor of a lighter nature. You shouldn’t go scaring the boy.” Kit wanted to tell him that Crowley’s joke had hardly scared him, but there was such an earnest sound in Aziraphale’s voice that he couldn’t find it in him to. After all, it was rather nice to have someone trying to look after him. Even for really little things, like jokes done in poor taste.

_The Blackthorns had looked after you, too_, a voice in the back of his head reminded him. _And that had hardly turned out well._

“So why’d Tessa ask you to get me?” Kit blurted out, determined to escape from his thoughts before they could head down paths he’d rather not revisit. He’d had enough of them haunting his bedroom in the Silent City, he didn’t need them souring this bookstore too.

Aziraphale and Crowley shared a brief look, silently communicating in that secret way all couples seemed to know, before they both turned back to him at the same time. “Well,” Aziraphale began, trying and failing to have a nonchalant air as Crowley seemed to sink further down his chair than should have been physically possible without kicking Kit. “It’s not a very pleasant story, I’m afraid.” All traces of joviality faded from Aziraphale’s face as he spoke and Kit was surprised to see that, even with the gentle roundness of his face softening all of his expressions, the faerie was able to look quite severe as he frowned. “But you deserve to know,” he continued, “so I’ll do my best to share it. I just hope you won’t think too poorly about faeries afterwards.”

Kit felt the odd urge to reassure the man before him – he seemed so forlorn, as though he was condemning himself to cruel judgment – but before he could open his mouth to say anything, Aziraphale began to speak again.

“Tessa asked us to get you because without guidance, you are in extreme danger. Your parents knew this, as did theirs, and the ones before. Generations and generations of your family have been hunted. This you know, because the Riders came after you. What you don’t know – what Tessa has asked us to tell you, is why. And that is a multifaceted, tangled story. A tragedy, really –“

“Now who’s scaring the boy, angel?” Crowley interrupted, his voice mild but warning as he reached over to Kit and plucked the crumbled cookie pieces from his hand. Kit hadn’t even realized he had gripped it so tight. “The Riders are gone, remember? Nothing but a nightmare now.” He told Kit, his voice surprisingly soft as he tossed a cloth napkin towards him.

“My apologies, Kit.” Aziraphale told him, his face twisted into an expression of pure contriteness. “I tend to get carried away, you see.”

“It’s fine.” Kit muttered, wiping chocolate off his hand with what he hoped was an air of nonchalance. “Tragedy seems to sum up the last fifteen years of my life pretty well,” he added, only partially joking. Aziraphale seemed to grow even more distraught at that but after a quick glance with Crowley – or maybe just at Crowley, Kit really couldn’t tell with the sunglasses – he decided to continue the story anyway.

“Long ago, before the Accords were established and when Shadowhunters still killed Downworlders with impunity, the Seelie Queen and the Unseelie King decided to set aside centuries’ old animosities and come together to create a child who would be heir of all of Faerie. It is, of course, rather difficult for faeries to conceive so when the Queen first quickened, it was met with glorious celebrations all over Faerie. The heir was to be the Fae’s deliverance and the King, proud as all the worst of faeries are, imbued the unborn child with all sorts of abilities. The child would be the ideal ruler, strong and proud, and his aura would inspire perfect, unwavering loyalty and love from all. But when the time came and the Queen took to the birthing bed, she did not bear the robust son the King hoped for, but a healthy daughter.”

“Plot twist.” Kit couldn’t help but mutter. He thought he heard Crowley cover up a quiet snort but Aziraphale, if he heard the interruption, chose not to acknowledge it.

“The King, like many foolish rulers before and after him, did not believe a woman could rule over Faerie and he believed the Queen had duped him. He took their daughter, Auraline, and kept her locked away. The Queen raged at him and demanded that, if the King refused to acknowledge their daughter, he could at least give her back. The King refused, which is a horrendous slight the Queen never forgot. Overtime, with Auraline coming more and more into her powers, the King decided she was risk that could not be allowed to grow any further. Privately, he mulled about killing her.

Before any such murder could occur, Auraline’s caretaker uncovered the plot and stole Auraline away into the mortal world. The only thing the King hated more than his daughter was disobedience and so he sent his most feared warriors – the Riders of Mannan – after them. But Auraline was never found by them and the King had to put forth a story that his first heir was taken from him. This, too, the Queen never forgave for she was sure that the King had carried out his original plan of murdering her only daughter. The dream of uniting both sides of Faerie died the night Auraline slipped from her bedchamber.

But Auraline lived and in time she met a mortal man that she loved deeply. This man was, by all appearances, a mundane magician with the sight who entertained Downworlder children in Shadowmarkets. He called himself Roland Loss, in honor of a woman who had taken in his family many years before him, but that wasn’t his true name nor was he truly a mundane. He came from a Nephilim family, although his branch had long been away from the Angel. I’m sure you can guess his true name?” Here Aziraphale paused, looking at Kit with a surprisingly indiscernible expression. Kit felt his own face warm slightly.

“Herondale,” he muttered, feeling deeply uncomfortable. It was one thing to be part of one cursed family, but two just seemed over-kill.

“Correct. Roland was descended from the son of Tobias Herondale and he was well-versed in the ways of slipping out of the Nephilim’s sight. When Auraline took to him, the feelings were reciprocated and they had a child together. They spent a lifetime loving each other deeply and when Roland died, Auraline chose to depart this world with him. All they left behind was their child, who carried the blood of the First Heir and the Herondales within. That child had their own and so forth, down the line. And always they were hunted by the Riders intent on ending the line of the First Heir forever. Some they succeeded in finding, like your poor mother Rosemary. Others lived, and with them the blood of the Heir did as well, all the way down to you. You, dear boy, are the last of the line.”

“No pressure or anything,” Kit murmured, rubbing at his temples slightly. He could feel a headache forming as though his mind was doing its best to reject everything Aziraphale told him. It felt like far too much to be placed on him. He was nothing terribly special, unless one counted his uncanny ability to sniff out the chocolate chip cookies after someone hid them as a talent. But then he remembered the white light from his hands and the figures of the Riders, falling onto the battlefield, and he barely resisted a shudder. Even if he didn’t want this, he couldn’t deny anything in Aziraphale’s story.

“Lots of pressure, really.” That was Crowley, his voice drawling. Kit looked up to see him leaning back precariously, balancing himself with one leg carelessly placed on the table. Kit didn’t think Aziraphale was the type to tolerate feet on the furniture but when he glanced at the other man, he noticed that he was too busy staring worriedly at Kit to pay any attention to the warlock’s feet. Kit didn’t know why the older man looked so concerned – _he_ wasn’t the last descendant of some sort of doubly cursed line – but he forced his expression into something calmer. The last thing he wanted to do now was upset the strange man. “Honestly, more than any fourteen-year-old lad should be expected to handle,” Crowley continued calmly, oblivious or uncaring about the rather tense atmosphere of the room.

“Fifteen,” Kit corrected automatically at the same time that Aziraphale let out a rather chastising “Crowley!”. Both were ignored by Crowley who continued on speaking with the same even, casual tone.

“Only idiots would try to put so much pressure on a child of course. Naturally, this is why the Nephilim have done so -”

“_Crowley_!” Aziraphale said with a pointed look towards Kit. Kit, who had gone many years listening and commiserating about the crimes of Shadowhunters with other denizens of the Shadow Market, merely shrugged when Aziraphale shot him a half scandalized, half apologetic expression.

“- why Tessa Gray continues to associate with them, I don’t understand. Good looks only get’s one so far.” Crowley didn’t even raise his voice in acknowledgement of Aziraphale’s interruption although there was a small uptick to the corners of his lips that Kit was pretty sure would have been a smirk if the warlock allowed it to grow. “But whatever her reasons, she has sided with the Nephilim that you had to know these things, so Aziraphale has told them to you. Death, disaster, and undoubtedly disease –“

“For goodness’ sake, _Crowley_!”

“- follow your family. There’s no escaping that. Nor is there any escaping the nasty bit where if the faeries found out who you were, they’d probably try to kill you. Or use you. And who knows what would happen if the Nephilim knew the truth. Hot and cold, those ones. That’s why it’s important for you to know. It’s unpleasant, but you have to understand why everyone would be out for you, if they knew.” It sounded like a death sentence, despite the warlock’s nonchalant air. Kit was smart enough to have figured that all out himself – although he wasn’t quite sure whether or not he believed the Shadowhunters would hurt him, even if they knew – but there was something starkly horrifying about having it laid out so matter-of-factly.

“It really is not all that dire,” Aziraphale said after a moment’s pause. He looked anxious, fiddling slightly with his fingers as Kit turned to look at him. “I’ve heard some rather flattering things about the new Unseelie King, and the new Consul is far more friendly to Downworlders than any in decades. And of course, you have people that will help you Kit.” Aziraphale’s soft face seemed to glow with earnestness, making it fairly clear to Kit who the faerie had in mind. It made him uncomfortable, how easily Aziraphale offered help. People always wanted something in exchange for help and Kit didn’t know what he could give the man.

"Yes, many are willing to help you,” Crowley drawled, bringing Kit’s attention back to him. The man was sitting up now, ostensibly staring at his empty wrist as though checking the time. “Including, somehow, me and Aziraphale. But it’s nearly three now and we must be getting back.” Kit wasn’t sure what the warlock meant by “back” or how he was even sure of the time without looking at a watch, clock, or at least a cellphone but Aziraphale seemed to take his word for it, jumping up immediately.

“Oh dear! We promised Anathema we’d be back in time for Adam and Warlock’s return from school!” Kit watched in confusion as Aziraphale scurried over to the door of the bookshop and flipped over a sign in the window. He hadn’t even realized the shop had been technically open. “Crowley, please be a dear and clean up the tea while I close up shop! Kit, I meant to ask if you enjoyed reading at all – I’m afraid Tadfield can be quite dull at times – feel free to pick any book that catches your interest!” He called over his shoulder. Kit, still rather confused, stood up from his chair just in time for it to vanish alongside the table and rest of the chairs with a lazy wave of Crowley’s hand. The warlock was now standing too, smirking slightly as he watched Aziraphale scurry around the shop, now carrying a stack full of books he hadn’t gotten around to stocking.

"What’s happening exactly? Where is Tadfield?” Kit asked him, feeling rather out of the loop.

“Tadfield’s home, of course. We’ve got to head back before Adam decides to burn down the neighborhood again.” Kit really needed to learn to read the warlock – he had no idea who Adam was or whether or not he really did have a predisposition towards arson.

“Oh,” was all he said. Things were happening rather quickly and it was hard for him to keep up with everything. “Will I wait in the city for Tessa and Jem, then? Or are you going to take me back to the Silent City?” Privately, Kit didn’t particularly want to spend time in London – he hadn’t had a very good experience last time – but he wanted to revisit the Silent City even less.

Kit had thought he’d asked a rather reasonable question but judging by Crowley’s look of incredulity – how someone could express such an emotion with their eyes still fully covered Kit didn’t know but Crowley had certainly mastered it – he was wrong. “What are you talking about? I already told you Tessa asked us to retrieve you from the city on her behalf. You’re coming home with us until she can extract herself from the other Shadowhunters and come fetch you. Now, pick a book to please Aziraphale so we can be on our way.” The amount of irritation in Crowley’s voice was impressive enough that Kit didn’t think to argue or wonder about this strange series of events he found himself in. He turned and grabbed the first book off the shelf nearest him and tucked into the crook of his arm, forcing himself to ignore the incredulous sounding mutterings coming from the warlock beside him.

“Lovely, lovely.” Aziraphale had returned to the back corner they had once been standing in. “You took care of the tea, right dear? You didn’t just send it to Mr. Tyler’s garden again?”

“What kind of man do you take me for, Angel?” Crowley answered, all trace of irritation gone from his voice as suddenly as it had arrived. Kit couldn’t help noticing that he had given a rather spectacular non-answer even as Aziraphale, apparently oblivious, beamed at the other man.

“Wonderful! Let’s be on our way then!”

“Anything for you, Angel.” Crowley said as he gestured towards the wall they had first portaled in from. The portal reappeared after just a moment, swirling expectantly.

And just like that, Kit found himself willingly heading to an unknown place, idly wondering if tertiary locations were more dangerous than secondary and whether or not he was losing his mind, trusting two strangers so completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update; life has been pretty hectic lately! Also, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! I'll try to update again as soon as possible!

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a story idea I wrote based on a post I made on Tumblr. It's not what I usually write and I'm not sure I have the characterizations down right, but I hope you all liked it! I'm not sure how far I'll continue it - mainly if I'll turn it into a full story or keep it to short drabble chapters, but I have a few ideas for it regardless, if any of you are interested. Thank you for reading!


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